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Maybe-one-day’s

And then night comes. When all your dreams float above the bed and drift across low ceilings like a cloud of maybe-one-day’s. What a shapeshifter your mind is.

“I didn’t mean to get so lost,” You tell your dreams, apologizing for your lack of attentiveness to their calling.

“I just thought you could fend for yourself for awhile. I thought I would take a stab at forbearance for a change. You know. Mix things up a little?”

But then slighted were your attempts at greatness — of becoming the person you set out to find. Oh what a person you used to fight to become.

Now there is no space for such theories in the day. All the things you dare not touch. Because real people live in real life. Because there are buses to catch and appointments to be kept. And the sun, like a giant spotlight of gaping proportions, points out all your flaws before the crowd even knows your name. Who can breathe when a spotlight is on them, let alone think beyond the sweat of their brow. No, daytime is no place for dreams.

But you are small, and the night reminds you of this too, though you do not suffocate under the gasp of darkness.

Here you remember what things you told yourself under a distant cloak of night.
Here the breezeless air mixed with utter silence forces you to think beyond.
Here you are being called to face the face of fear.

And then you remember that fear is what kept you down for so long to begin with.
And then you remember what fear looks like, how little girth it has.
And then you remember that you were a champion once, slaying dragons in distant lands.
And then you remember waking to blood on your hands; the death of fear
And then you remember life.